Why would I kill my girlfriend? I wouldn’t, under normal circumstances.

Let me frame a normal day for us. I pull into her driveway, and sit in the car honking the horn (I have programmed a Pavlovian ‘sound-of-horn=come-outside-NOW’ response deep within her psyche). But wait. Pretend, for this hypothetical exercise, she doesn’t immediately come out. So I have to physically lift my body out of my car, huff all the way up her sidewalk, onto the deck, to the door. It’s never come to that, but I imagine I’d be pretty angry by that point.

We can all see where this is going, but stay with me. Next, I begin pounding on the door, yelling, ‘GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE!’ I haven’t conditioned a response for that cue into her yet, but I think she would understand what I wanted her to do. I stand there, agitation escalating, but also happy with anticipation, because Pavlovian cue or not, she always knows to bring me a beer and a Snickers bar when I am at her house, no matter where on the property I happen to be located.

She still hasn’t exited her house. At this juncture, it’s apparent that she’s trying to get my goat on purpose. Poor move.

But then let’s say I peek in the window, and any one of the following scenarios has occurred:

}She was on a stool, trying to make a deposit in the Swear Jar on top of the refrigerator, slipped, grabbed the gigantic cooling device for support, and pulled the whole thing down on top of her, turning her body into a pancake.

}She was in the community pool, swam too close to that thing in the bottom, and got her guts sucked out her ass.

The point I’m trying to make is that some horrible accident has happened where she would be better off dead. Unless of course she wants to live as a no-limbed pancake that’s missing a good percentage of its digestive system.

The French refer to it as the ‘blow of mercy,’ the coup de grâce.

I would be a terrible, terrible boyfriend if I didn’t do that for her.

SOMEWHERE NEAR YOU—A recent police raid uncovered the unthinkable: right here, in a neighborhood near you, maybe even in your backyard, a mass gathering of pedophiles regularly holds congress in a government-funded building. The meetings take place every weekday, excluding federal holidays, and for reasons unknown, a long stretch during the summer months, when only the dullest of the perverts seem to hang around the facility.

“At first, it seemed like your basic public meeting place, you know, rooms with chairs all aimed at a focal point, writing tools, papers,” said an officer who wished to remain anonymous. “Then, we looked at what was on those papers. One, in very poor, pervy handwriting, read ‘Jenny Smith is hot.’ Well, we looked into it, and dug up some info on this Jenny Smith character. Turns out she’s only 14. Upon further investigation, we found a Trapper Keeper that belonged to Jenny—she herself was in possession of a note saying ‘I want to make out with Zack Anderson.’ So then, we ran a background check on Zack Anderson. Turns out he’s only thirteen, and a search of his personal notes hinted that he is attracted to a fifteen year-old. Every one of these sickos we looked into seemed to be in love with someone ranging from twelve to sixteen years old. And the most disturbing part is, none of them put any effort into hiding it. I think I’m going to be sick, excuse me.”

Currently, the investigation has covered approximately a third of the complex. The officer went on: “It appears the money of taxpayers has been used to install a playground, yes a playground, right there outside the building. What government building would require a jungle gym? One that’s trying to attract kids, is what. Well guess what—it also attracted the attention of the police.”

Authorities believe that the playground equipment is part of a bizarre pansexual ritual that is only the beginning of what could be corruption on multiple levels of government.

“This could go as high as city hall,” the officer continued. “Or even higher. I don’t know yet. I just don’t know. Only time will tell how deep and wide the perverse corruption has spread, and God help us all if it has spilled over outside these walls. If these degenerates are willing to behave like this on government property, I can only imagine what they do to each other in the privacy of their homes, or probably their parents’ homes, because people this sick should not be allowed to live on their own.”

As of press time, a bunch of junior high and middle school kids got the day off while police rifled through their stuff.

Like this:

A pair of twins, reeling from the death of their parents, use their insurance money to buy an old mansion. The day comes when they move into their new digs. For an old house, it’s got a lot of modern amenities—track lighting, full gym, and a supply of creatine that almost seems to breed overnight. But then strange things begin to happen: shirts are found shrunken to a perfect ‘athletic fit,’ and disintegrate after more than one use. Any full-bodied beer placed in the refrigerator is mysteriously Miller 64 by morning. Sugar and salt transform into protein powder.

The house develops a new center of gravity, directly in front of the bathroom mirror. Once positioned in that spot, the twins find it nearly impossible to look away. Coupons for local tanning salons appear on the breakfast bar. The walls bleed hair gel at night, and in the morning, instead of fog, a choking mist of Axe body spray lingers over the property.

The strange occurrences escalate. At the apex of the ‘frightenings’, one of the twins wakes up and finds a rotting, yet well-coiffed zombie lingering near the bed, ready with a pointed weapon. The apparition points, and shoots. The boy screams, but is not harmed. It turns out it was a bottle of Febreeze; the walking dead man thought the stagnant scent in the room would ‘scare off tail.’ Episodes like this continue, until the twins find that the house has a deep, dark secret: it is haunted by ghost zombie metrosexual meat-head douchebags.

An epic battle ensues—the twins put up an effort to disgustify their house—laundry is put off, Tucker Max novels are burned, Spike TV is blocked. Inevitably, the house proves to be too powerful with its telekinetic powers.

The twins eventually find themselves dressing in tight shirts and downing protein shakes with their ‘brahs’ without even realizing what happened. The back patio, which they had originally planned to use for a laid-back bonfire area, is suddenly populated by loud hordes of women with low self esteem.

Facing defeat, the twins attempt a last act of defiance: they try to vomit up the extreme amount of protein that has been wreaking havoc on their digestive systems, but the metrosexual spirits suppress the urge, causing the twins to choke and die.

Thor once lost his hammer to the giant Thrym, who wanted the goddess Freyja as payment for it. In order to get the hammer back, Thor and Loki travelled to the land of the giants disguised as bride and bridesmaid. Things happen, and he eventually regains his weapon. Read all about it here and here.